And Shepard, much that I regret meeting him, isn’t just anyone. He saved my life in the desert. And Agatha’s, too. We were about ten seconds away from Joan-of-Arc territory when he intervened.
We take the Tube to my parents’ house. Shepard talks too loud and points at everything. “Londoners don’t talk on the Underground,” I tell him.
“But I’m not from London,” he replies.
I haven’t asked him much about his demon problem yet. I want Mum and Dad to hear the whole story. I know for certain that Mum’s done a course in demonology, and Dad knows a lot about magickal law; it was part of his linguistics training.
I’ve only got the usual demon training: Don’t talk to them. Don’t take sweets from them. Never, ever get in their vans.
It’s not usually a danger. Demons don’t just show up—they have to be summoned.
“All right,” I say, when we’re off the Tube and walking down my street, “we’re almost there. Remember, you promised not to ask impertinent questions.”
“I remember.”
“Maybe just don’t ask any questions—I don’t trust you to judge what’s pertinent.”
“Do you have to cast a spell to reveal it?” he asks.
“To reveal pertinence?”
“No, your house—is it magickally hidden?”
I can feel the disdain on my face. “How would we get our mail if our house was magickally hidden?”
“So, you just . . . walk in?”
“Well”—I turn up the path to our house—“I have to use a key.”
Shepard frowns up at the brick two-storey. It’s painted light blue, and my dad’s planted hydrangeas out front.
“Magicians don’t all live in caves and castles,” I say. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Do any magicians live in caves and castles?”
“This is what I mean about impertinent questions.”
I open the door and let him in. The house is a mess; it’s always a mess. Too many people live here, too many people with too many things, and nobody cares overly much about cleaning. Both my parents work long hours—though that’s shifted some recently. With the Mage gone, Mum took over the headmaster’s post at Watford. And with the Humdrum gone, my dad’s work on magickal dead spots is less critical. He’s spending less time in his lab and more time managing my siblings.
I have three brothers and one sister, and they’re all home for the summer. Premal, the oldest, moved back home a year and a half ago, when the Mage’s Men were disbanded. Premal still doesn’t have a job, and he hasn’t started university, but Mum won’t let anyone mention it.
After the news broke—that the Mage was a power-mad murderer—one of the other Mage’s Men, a boy from Premal’s year, tried to kill himself. No one in our house is allowed to mention that either.
I give Shepard a hard once-over before we walk into the living room, as if some last-minute adjustment will make him less Normal. Shepard looks like he’s looked every other day since we met: tall and lanky, long face, bright eyes. He’s Black, with hair that’s two inches tall on top but shaved close over his ears. He wears John Lennon glasses and corduroy trousers. (We picked up extra clothes for him at the airport, and somehow he managed to find more corduroy trousers.)
I’ve only seen Shepard without his denim jacket once, the day he showed me his curse tattoos. The jacket’s unbelievably naff, covered in badges that say things like THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE AND SOMEWHERE, SOMETHING INCREDIBLE IS WAITING TO BE KNOWN. Honestly, he looks like a complete nerd, but that, at least, won’t be a problem in my house.
“What?” he whispers.
“What,” I whisper back.
“You look like you’re trying to find something wrong with me.”
“I am.”
“Parents like me,” he says. (Smug.)
“My mum won’t.”
“Is she racist?”
“What? No! I’m biracial.”
Shepard shrugs.
“She’s not racist,” I say. “She just doesn’t like people. Fortunately, you’re interesting.”
He grins. “I mean, I think so. But it’s nice to hear you say it.”
I roll my eyes, turning away from him. “Mum!” I shout. “Dad!”
“In here!” Mum shouts back. It sounds like she’s in the kitchen.
I lead Shepard through the living room. Pacey and Priya are playing Nintendo. “Hey,” I say flatly. “This is Shepard.”
Shepard’s ready to launch his usual charm attack, but my siblings just nod and say, “Hey” without looking away from the screen.
Mum’s in the kitchen, standing right under the light, holding Pip’s hand. Pip’s 10, he’s the youngest. He’ll start at Watford in the autumn.
“Penelope,” Mum says. “How’s that reversal spell you’re working on?”
“It’s promising,” I say.
“Pip’s got a splinter. I thought I’d try reversing an ‘Under my skin.’ ”
“You’re not casting experimental spells on my hand,” Pip says.
“I’m good with splinters,” Shepard says. “Can I help?”
“What spell do you use?” Mum asks.
“I usually use tweezers,” he says.
She looks up at him for the first time. “You’re Penny’s friend with the urgent problem.”
“Mum,” I say, “this is Shepard.”
He holds out his hand, but she’s already looking back at Pip, holding her wand over his palm.
“No experiments,” Pip says. “I play piano!”
“You never practice,” she says.
“I will!” he swears.
She hitches her wand up in a plucking motion. “No trespassing!”
Pip yelps. A bit of something flies out his hand.
“I can’t believe that worked,” Mum says.
Pip yanks his hand back—“Mum, you’re the worst”—and stomps out of the room.
Mum finally gives Shepard and me her full attention.
Simon says my mother and I are two peas in a pod. “She’s you in twenty-five years, when you give even fewer fucks.” I don’t see it. Mum’s much tougher than I am. And much smarter. And much more confident about her hair.
“I don’t think we’ve met before,” she says to Shepard. “What year were you at Watford?”
“Shepard’s a—an American,” I say, before he can say anything.
Mum’s mouth twitches downward. She’d been so pleased to hear that Micah and I were done. “Martin!” she yelled at my dad. “Penelope has finally grown out of the American!” She must think I immediately replaced him.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask. “I want his opinion, too.”
“He had to run out,” Mum says. “You’re stuck with me. Are you two hungry?” She opens the refrigerator. “There are fish fingers, I think. Is Simon hungry, as well? I probably don’t have that many fish fingers.”
“Simon isn’t here.”
Mum looks over her shoulder. “Isn’t he? Did you have him surgically detached?”